


Tick, You're It!

by tattooeddevil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooeddevil/pseuds/tattooeddevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's limbs stop working, one by one, and Sam's doing a piss poor job of freaking out over it. Will they be able to find what is causing Dean's paralysis?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tick, You're It!

Dean wakes up to the sound of the door closing softly. He relaxes back into the bed with a deep sigh, letting the silence keep him sleepy and warm for a few more moments. His morning wood is a nice little thrum under his skin, making itself known more with every passing second. He shouldn’t, Sam’s gonna be back any minute, but Dean’s not one to pass up an opportunity - no matter how small - to get off. Even if it’s not with Jessie, the girl from the diner down the road who he’s been trying to get in the sack for the past few days they’ve been in this town.

Hello right hand.

He drags the sheets off him and his boxers down his legs. He wraps his hand in a tight fist around his half hard cock and starts a slow rhythm. He can feel himself growing hard, anticipatory warmth spreading through him all the way to the tips of his fingers. It centers in the pit of his stomach and his balls, making him shiver with arousal. He speeds up his hand, hips lifting off the bed slightly to thrust into his fist.

The first sign something is wrong, is his left leg not moving along with his hips and right leg. He gives it all of two seconds of thought before mentally shrugging and dismissing the quirk as probably nothing. He has more urgent matters at hand. Literally. He tightens his fist a little more, a moan falling from his lips. He moves his free hand down to his balls and squeezes them softly. It’s enough to make the hot ball in his stomach explode, his come splattering on his chest. He lets himself bask in the glow of a nice orgasm for a few moments, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and making his way over to the bathroom to clean up.

Or he would have, if his legs worked.

Uhm... What? Confusion sets in Dean’s mind. He tries to move his legs again and the right one actually twitches a little before it gives up. Left doesn’t do jack squat. Nothing. He pokes at his legs. He feels that just fine. He pinches the skin on the inside of his thigh. Also just fine. He tries lifting his left leg again. Then his right. Nothing. Well fuck.

Confusion turns to panic, but he stomps it down quickly. It won’t do any good to panic, he needs to figure out what’s wrong first. His mind goes a mile a minute, trying to come up with a reason for his legs not to work, but he comes up empty. They hunted a skinwalker a few days ago, but it never even touched them and Dean’s pretty sure skinwalkers don’t do spells or curses. They then killed off a wendigo that also hadn’t gotten close enough to do anything to him. He tries to remember if Sam said anything about witches being in the area, but nothing comes to mind. Then what?

He goes to wipe his hand over his face in an attempt to focus and clear his mind, but seeing his right hand hang limply from his wrist only accomplishes the opposite. He shifts and pushes around with his arms and elbows until he’s more or less sitting up against the headboard of the bed. He stares at his legs and hand, frantically trying to move them, but nothing happens. He’s paralyzed. By the time Sam comes back, Dean’s well on his way to freaking out after all.

“Hey Dean, I got coffee.”

“Sam?”

No better way than to scare Sam than the panicky thread in Dean’s voice. He spins on his heels to face Dean from where he was setting down the two steaming coffee cups. His eyes go wide and round when he takes in Dean’s state of undress, but Dean’s got more pressing issues at hand.

“I can’t move my legs! And look!”

He flaps his motionless hand in Sam’s direction, carefully ignoring the high pitch his voice has taken on. He’s allowed to lose his shit, thank you very much. Sam slaps a hand over his eyes and turns his head away.

“Dude, cover yourself up first.”

Dean’s pretty sure Sam’s got his priorities wrong - he’s paralyzed, get on with the freaking out! - but he drags the cover over himself haphazardly with his good hand. The one that still works.

“You can look now, princess, I’m decent. Nothing to scar you for life with.”

He flaps his non-working hand at Sam again and gestures to his legs with the other.

“Can we get on with the finding out why my legs don’t work part of our day now then, please?”

Sam scowls at him, not in the least anywhere near as panicked as Dean would like him to be.

“You probably just slept funny or something. Did you just do this to flash me and traumatize me with your naked dick? Not to mention the drying come on your stomach?”

Now it’s Dean’s time to scowl.

“No! I’m serious, I think something’s wrong, man!”

Sam sighs with an exaggerated eye roll, but moves to Dean’s side anyway, probing and prodding his legs through the sheet. Dean’s impatient, he’s done all of that already, but he knows Sam and he knows he needs to let Sam investigate for himself. He’s weird like that, his little college boy.

“Can you feel that?” Yes, Doctor Winchester.

“Does it hurt?” No, Doctor Winchester.

“Is it just your legs and hand?” Yes, Doctor Winchester.

“Move your arm for me. Wiggle your fingers. Move your head. Stick out your tongue. Stop bitching at me in your head.”

Bastard.

Dean’s this-close to asking Sam if his prostate exam is next, but he’s not entirely sure if Sam would appreciate the sarcasm. He’s getting impatient, the immediate surge of panic forgotten in exchange for the frustration of slow little brothers that don’t freak out enough at the prospect of having a disabled big brother.

“Can we get a move on, Sammy? I’m pretty sure I just lost function in my hips now too.”

That earns him a concerned glance and more probing fingers. Sam pokes his hips, his abdomen and his stomach before manhandling him onto his front, sheet quickly thrown over his bare butt. Dean squawks indignantly, but Sam ignores him in favor of continuing his examination.

“Can you feel this?” Yes, Doctor Winchester, did we not just do this?

“How about this?” Yes, Doctor Winchester, I’m pretty sure I’ll feel it all.

“Are you bitching at me in your head again?” No, Doctor Winchester, I am the picture of innocence.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Sam grabs his laptop from the nightstand and flips it open to the internet. Dean watches him type and click away, until he can’t take the waiting anymore. He places his hands on the mattress, his immobile hand bent at the wrist uncomfortably, and pushes himself up. Or, he would have, if his arms would work. Shit.

He levers himself up about an inch before he face-plants right into the mattress again. His voice is muffled when he informs Sam.

“I think I lost function in my arms now too.”

Sam grunts an acknowledgement - seriously, that’s all he gets now? - but follows it up immediately with a victorious cry. Dean forgives him instantly.

“Got it! It’s a tick.”

Dean stares at Sam’s grinning face for a few seconds. It’s awe, what he feels, but mostly just what the fuck.

“How on earth did you come up with that one?”

It feels funny, lying on his stomach, unable to move, helpless, staring up at his brother from an uncomfortable angle, while having a conversation about ticks. He’s pretty sure this won’t ever happen again.

“The wendigo in the Rockies a few days ago, remember? The forest potentially filled with ticks? You walked a little funny yesterday too. Did your legs feel tired?”

Huh. They did. Bonus points for Doctor Winchester.

“Remember when dad would take us camping and he’d bore us to death with his safety spiel? Make sure the fire’s always out, don’t leave food lying around, check for ticks every day?”

He does remember. He also remembers zoning out halfway through each time. Of course geeky little Sammy paid attention every time, probably even took notes.

“Ticks can cause paralysis. Do you have one?”

Dean snorts and awkwardly gestures to himself with a jerk of his head.

“Do I look like I can check for one?”

Sam cocks his head with a thoughtful look on his face that Dean knows will only lead to bad things. He’s right when Sam opens his mouth and announces they need to strip search Dean to locate the tick.

“And since you can’t do it, I’ll do it.”

If he hadn’t been cursing his stupid body for not working before, he is now. The idea of Sam groping him all over in search for a murderous tick makes him grit his teeth and demand his limbs to cooperate. No way is Sam putting his gigantor hands all over him when he can’t defend himself.

“You are not groping me!”

Sam sighs.

“Do you have a better idea?”

Then Dean sighs. He doesn’t. He’s not sulking, he just isn’t.

“Look, Dean, there’s no other way, okay? According to what I found online, the paralysis spreads from the legs to the arms and the torso, before it goes to the head and then the respiratory organs. You could die if we don’t find the tick and get rid of it. Like, now.”

Before Dean has any chance of protesting more, Sam’s ripped the sheet away, leaving Dean bared to the cold air and Sam’s eyes. He mutters a soft protest, but can’t really do more to make it stop. Or get a little bit of modesty back with the thin sheet. Sam just puts his hands on his ankles, fingers searching every nook and cranny on his skin. He feels the tickle when Sam feels between his toes, but he can’t twitch his feet away from it. This sucks.

Sam reports on everything he finds, or not finds.

“Nothing between your toes. You could use a pedicure, though.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk. Nothing on your ankles either. Nothing on your legs but a ridiculous amount of hair.”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later. Nothing on the back of your knees.”

Dean wants to flinch so bad when he feels Sam’s hands slide up over the back of his thighs to his butt. Sam’s fingers skim the edge of his butt cheeks and Dean squeaks.

“Dude! Do you mind not feeling me up there?”

That earns him a deep, suffering sigh, but nothing more. Sam’s fingers skim over his ass and briefly dip inside his crack and that’s it.

“Sam! Watch the fingers, dude!”

“Oh come on, Dean! I gotta check everywhere, you know that. Now shut up!”

Sam feels around his ass a little more, no doubt just to piss Dean off lingering longer than necessary, before moving on to his hips and lower back.

“Nothing on your perky, little ass, you prude.”

Sam’s hands stall for a moment and Dean wants to lift his head to try and see what he’s doing, but he can’t. Along with the rest of his body, his head is now also immobile. Sam needs to stop playing around and hurry the fuck up!

“Sam? I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you better speed this along, dude. Head’s out of the game now too.”

“What? Shit. Okay, hang on.”

Sam’s hands fly over his body now, searching every spot, every inch of skin they can find. His back, his arm pits, his elbows, between his fingers, on his scalp, behind his ears, in his ears.

“In my ears, seriously, Sam?”

Sam wrestles him onto his back and throws the sheet over his crotch. He quickly checks Dean’s skin, following the same route he did on Dean’s back.

“Nothing on your legs, nothing on your knees, nothing on your chest, nothing in your neck, nothing on your head.”

Looking at Sam’s hesitant face, Dean gets a sinking feeling it’s gonna get a little more worse right about now.

“No tick?”

“Uhm... There’s one place I haven’t... looked yet.”

Sam fidgets uncomfortably and it takes Dean a few seconds to figure out what he’s talking about. When he sees Sam glance at his sheet-covered crotch he adds one and one. He does not like the outcome.

“No. Hell no, Sam! You are not fondling my junk!”

Sam rolls his eyes, but blushes deep red down to the collar of his shirt at the same time.

“I won’t fondle you, you ass. It’s just... Well...”

Sam hesitates again and Dean gets impatient.

“Spit it out, Sam, I’m dying here!”

“Ticksusuallynestleinwarmspotslikecrotches.”

Sam looks as uncomfortable and grossed out as Dean feels when he understands Sam’s ramble. He thinks about saying no again, he can’t let his little brother handle his junk, but he’s also still paralyzed. If it is a tick and all it takes is take it out for him to get better, than why not? Ugh, this sucks.

He sighs and closes his eyes in surrender.

“Fine. Fondle me, you perv.”

Sam snorts and it takes a few lingering seconds for him to drag the sheet off Dean’s body, but then cool air hits Dean’s crotch and his hands itch to cover himself up. Damn his stupid non-working hands.

Sam’s fingers are light and hesitant when he touches Dean’s inner thighs and feels around his groin. Dean can feel the tickle of someone else hands on his sensitive parts and he’s never prayed so hard in his life for not getting an inappropriate boner. He’s not sure if he’ll ever live down the ridicule and shame. He can already feel the blood rise to his cheeks and silently thanks his body for not sending it down instead. He’ll take blushing over popping wood, thank you very much.

He can practically feel Sam’s hesitance before his fingers grab Dean’s cock and move it out of the way for his other hand to cup around Dean’s balls. Dean squeezes his eyes tighter and sets up a mantra in his head of ‘it’s your little brother, it’s your little brother, it’s not a hot chick, it’s your little brother.’ It doesn’t help when Sam actually feels up his cock too, but it does help fight the hard-on that wants to pop out. Barely.

Thankfully, Sam works fast and it’s only a few seconds before he hallelujahs.

“Got it!”

Dean opens his eyes to look at Sam’s victorious face and snorts.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone happy about finding some disease making thing in a crotch.”

Sam grins before turning away to root in their supply box. He holds up some kind of clipper thing, which goes a long way to cure Dean’s wrongly placed arousal. Anything looking that much like a torture device should never be anywhere near his junk. Ever.

“It’s right behind your... balls.”

Sam blushes when he says balls and Dean snorts.

“You’re such a girl. Okay, so, take it out?”

“Yeah. Just... Don’t jump or anything, okay? If you move, I might only take the body off and not get the head.”

Dean glares at Sam.

“Really? You’re asking me not to move? Really?”

If he could have, he would have slapped Sam on the back of his head for being stupid, but as it is he can only give Sam his deadliest glare. Sam blushes appropriately and mumbles a ‘sorry.’ Bastard.

“Just get it on, okay?”

Sam stares at him for a second, before falling into a giggle-fit. It takes a few moments for Dean to catch up, but when he does he glares at Sam again.

“I didn’t mean it like that, stupid. Come on, save me from the deadly tick already!”

Still giggling softly, Sam lifts his cock again with one hand and the other disappears between Dean’s legs. He feels the small silver clipper nudge against his balls before it pushes in sharply. Dean grunts out a painful sound when Sam yanks the clipper from his skin, tearing something out of his sack. It hurts, but it’s only short lived. Sam studies whatever it is closely out of Dean’s eye line before throwing it in the trash can beside the bed.

“Got it? All of it?”

Sam nods, his face relieved.

“Yup. You should be just fine within a few hours.”

“Great. Can you let go of my cock now then?”


End file.
